


Seduction of the "Innocent"

by DangerousCommieSubversive



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Coming In Pants, Hand Jobs, M/M, Manipulation, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 22:20:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1704617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DangerousCommieSubversive/pseuds/DangerousCommieSubversive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quentin sneaks out of his room for a midnight snack, overhears a plot to bring down the school, and meets Wolverine's son. Wolverine's <em>ultra-hot</em> son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seduction of the "Innocent"

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fatallywhimsical](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatallywhimsical/gifts).



> Please note: Quentin is still at the school in this fic, and this could be construed as underage. My intent was for him to be eighteen, it's right before he graduates, but I felt it needed the warning.

The Jean Grey School is dark at two in the morning, and quiet, especially when there's been an emergency call and all of the X-Men are out. Not that that's  _good,_ and it's  _definitely_ in violation of  _some_ kind of law, and so Quentin starts composing as he wanders through the halls toward the kitchen. This one could be a speech. Or a  _broadsheet,_ he could bring broadsheets back into fashion. A boarding school where students are frequently left unattended in the night. No  _wonder_ people think the teachers are a menace.

First order of business, though: snacks. Because all he's got in his room is junk food, whereas in the fridge in the  _teacher's lounge_ he can get his hands on some of the Wakandan sweet date pastries that Professor Munroe doesn't think anyone knows about. And maybe he can get a beer. Not that Wolverine drinks anything  _decent,_ but it's something.

But...he's not alone.

He feels the minds coming before he hears anything, of course, knows that they're not normal denizens of the school, knows moreover that they don't mean well, and he's  _curious._ So he ducks into the coat closet nearby and pulls the door nearly all the way shut, slowly so that he doesn't squeak. And he listens.

And as they come closer he hears their thoughts and realizes who they are and he  _shivers._ Not minds he  _knows,_ precisely, but minds he knows  _of._ One of them is Mystique.

And the other one is Wolverine's son, Daken, and Quentin  _knows_ that's who it is, because Logan's face floats high in his mind.

“New building.” Mystique's voice is lower than he'd imagined, and warm. Not that he's ever imagined Mystique, not that he's weak enough to let that sort of thing distract...no, all right, it's Mystique, she's totally hot. “I like it.”

“I don't care if you  _like_ it, the question is can you  _learn_ it.” Daken's voice. A tenor, carefully modulated. Faint accent. “And do you have a persona yet?”

“Please. I'm a professional. I'm only trusting you to come  _up_ with this plan because you  _amuse_ me.”

“Hm.”

Paying attention to two things at once is difficult, but it's a skill Quentin's been working on for quite some time, and so he listens to their words  _and_ their thoughts, and while their words are  _interesting—_ the plan they're outlining is  _fascinating—_ their thoughts are...distracting. Daken, who he can  _see_ through Mystique's eyes, is a  _very_ good-looking man, and Mystique is considering. She's considering things. That they've done before. And Daken's thinking something similar, Quentin can feel the smile at the memory of looking  _ up _ at Mystique, watching her gasp and smirk as she rides him.

Quentin takes a deep breath, feeling his cheeks go hot. He was already sort of vaguely horny, in the way that he  _ always _ is past eleven or so at night, but he's also just tired enough that he's having difficulty blocking out the more invasive thoughts of others. And then they get close enough to the closet that he's a little worried about being spotted and he can  _ smell _ Daken. Not  _ bad, _ not  _ unwashed, _ but something warm and musky and laced with expensive cologne.

The arousal hits Quentin like a punch to the gut. Suddenly he's  _ painfully _ hard, his sleep pants tented out in a way that would be humiliating if there was anyone around to see. Luckily, though, he's by himself, tucked into the back of this closet against the softness of a wool coat, and the only people nearby are too involved in their nefarious business or whatever to go poking their heads in here.

He tries to think of something not sexy.

_ Idie! _

That is the exact  _ opposite _ of what he needs.

_ Evan! _

That should—ok, so that's apparently a thing he should think about in more detail later, when he's feeling coherent.

_ Wolverine. _

_ Also _ turns out to be the exact opposite of what he needs, and he was  _ not _ expecting that.

_ Ok, ok, Broo. Broo's not sexy. Broo is the  _ opposite _ of sexy. _

...his mind will never recover from the image.

And he's still hard.

At this point he can barely even  _ hear _ Daken and Mystique, who seem to have stopped not far from the closet where he's hiding. Obviously they haven't noticed him, so he's got some information he can use for leverage later, but right now...

Fuck.

He doesn't care.

He bites his lip, squeezes his eyes shut, and reaches down to cup the bulge in his pants.  _ Make it quick. Just so you can walk. And think about something sane. _

He thinks about the smirk he saw on Mystique's face in Daken's memories, and grips himself tight.

And doesn't  _ quite _ hear it when Daken murmurs, “You go on ahead, Mystique. I think I just smelled a rat.”

He's already deep in a fantasy when the closet door swings open, and he freezes with his hand on his dick and a damp patch already forming on the front of his pants.  _ Somebody's _ found him. Hopefully it'll just be someone who wants him dead and not, say, Professor Munroe, who wouldn't be pleased to find him out this late (and even  _ less _ please if she knew what he was just thinking).

It's not Storm.

It's Daken.

Who is...not as tall as he was somehow expecting, and  _ why _ is that is first thought?

He tries to salvage at least a  _ little _ bit of dignity, swallows hard, and says, “I hope you're not going to say 'what have we here,' that's  _ such _ a cliché.”

Daken shrugs. “If you'd rather I didn't. So. What did you hear?”

“Nothing. I was in this closet.” Quentin resists the urge to bite his lip. Maybe, if the world is somehow a kind place, Daken will take him at his word—and won't notice that he's still hard. “All  _ I _ wanted was a snack. Thought you were a teacher.”

Of course, the world isn't a kind place, and Quentin knows that damn well. Because Daken looks him up and down slowly, eyes lingering on first his hair and then the hand still hovering in front of his pants, and says, “You're Quentin Quire, the psychic.”

“...you know me?”

“Your name  _ was _ trending on Twitter not too long ago.” Daken plants a hand on the wall next to Quentin's head and leans in conspiratorially. “You were listening to us.”

Quentin opens his mouth to deny it, but forgets what he was going to say almost immediately. Daken's eyes are dark, his smile is sly, and he's very...attractive.

Daken lifts his free hand, pushes Quentin's chin gently up to close his mouth, and rests his hand on the side of Quentin's face almost  _ affectionately, _ thumb rubbing across his cheek. “Weren't you?”

“Y-yes?”

“What did you hear?” The hand on his cheek slides lower, there's a faint  _ ssh, _ and—Quentin feels a light pricking. A  _ claw. _ There's a  _ claw _ at his  _ throat _ and his heart starts pounding, not that it wasn't near there already.

“Not much. You're going to have Mystique infiltrate the school.”

“And?” Daken's eyes don't leave his, he doesn't mention the potential for a quiet, bloody death.

“And nothing. She was thinking about. About  _ other _ things. I got.” Quentin blushes hotly, looking down. “I got distracted.” It would  _ maybe _ be a  _ little _ less embarrassing if his erection would go down. And if Daken was  _ ugly _ or something.

The world is  _ very _ unkind tonight, and Quentin takes another gulping breath as he realizes that he might die in a few minutes—or seconds—and there are some things he needs to admit to himself, viz,

  1. He's into guys.

  2. Even when staring down the looming specter of death, he apparently thinks Wolverine's son is _really fucking hot._




Also maybe he shouldn't have thought of the world  _ fucking, _ because he's distracted again.

“Quentin Quire.” And—the claw's been retracted, and Daken is back to stroking Quentin's cheek with his thumb. “I've heard a lot about you.”

Quentin clears his throat, tries to summon something at least  _ adjacent _ to poise. “I'm very famous.”

“You  _ are. _ ” Daken's breath puffs warm on his skin. “And I could  _ use _ someone with your talents.”

“...for what?”

“I'm going to take over this school. My _father's_ no good at running it.” Daken _smiles_ at him. “Would you like to help? The X-Men _will_ need a new leader.”

Despite the distracting rub of Daken's thumb along his cheekbone, Quentin can't quite help but imagine it. Leader of the X-Men.  _Finally._ And working with someone who recognizes his  _genius._ Judging from the cut of his clothes, too, Daken has more  _class_ than Wolverine, and he talks like an educated man. He could—in fact, Quentin thinks, he  _will—_ be  _good_ for the school. Better than  _Wolverine_ ever could be.

He says, not quite able to help himself, “ _I_ am an  _excellent_ field leader.” And he tries to look Daken in the eyes again, but instead his gaze stops at the other man's mouth, one corner curving up in his sly smile. “With. With appropriate backup.”

“Of course, Quentin—may I call you Quentin?”

“S-sure.” His mouth is dry.

“In fact, for the moment you would be an  _excellent_ embedded liaison for Mystique. Agreed?”

“Um. Yes. Yes, of course.”

“Good. I'll have her come find you when she's established her cover.” The hand on the wall drops down, Daken squeezes his shoulder in a weirdly friendly way. “I think we'll do  _very_ good work together.”

His other hand is still on Quentin's cheek. Quentin finds himself half-hoping it stays there forever. His brain feels foggy. His cock is so hard that it aches. He sort of wants Daken to kiss him.

There's a faint sound in the corridor and Daken half-turns, lifting his head and sniffing almost imperceptibly. One of his knees brushes lightly, accidentally, against the front of Quentin's pants—

—and Quentin can't stop himself, he makes a little desperate noise in the back of his throat, he would do  _literally anything_ to get Daken to touch him right now.

Daken's thumb is suddenly against his mouth. “Ssh. We wouldn't want one of the teachers to hear us.”

Quentin nods, frozen, eyes wide.

“Here.” The thumb—Quentin notices abstractly that Daken apparently paints his nails black—teases his lips apart and slides in, warm skin soft against his tongue. While he's still processing that, which is a little brain-scrambling in and of itself, Daken leans in a little closer and nudges his legs apart with one knee. His voice is soft now, coaxing. “Go ahead.”

It takes a moment for Quentin to process what he's being told, but his hips are moving on instinct almost before the meaning gets through his brain. His cheeks flush even hotter as he rides Daken's thigh, biting down on the other man's thumb to stifle his own moans, fisting his hands in the front of Daken's shirt because if he doesn't he might fall.

And it seems like an  _embarrassingly_ short time before he jolts forward with a muffled groan, sweat beading on his forehead and pink hair falling into his eyes, and comes all over the inside of his own pants.

They're very still for a moment, and then Daken withdraws his damp thumb from Quentin's mouth, brushing it along Quentin's lower lip in a manner  _deeply_ suggestive, and says, “You should go back to your room before someone notices that you're not in bed.”

Quentin bites his lip. “Don't you want me to...”

“Don't worry.” Daken pats his cheek. “When I want something,  _I'll_ come to  _you._ ” His eyes flick down. “And in  _any_ case you should probably change out of those. Hurry, there's nobody in the halls right now.”

Suddenly feeling  _deeply_ embarrassed, Quentin stumbles out of the coat closet and starts heading back towards his room, all thoughts of his original midnight snack run forgotten.

Daken's soft voice drifts along behind him. “I think we'll make a  _wonderful_ team.”

 


End file.
